“You’re sweet,” he says.
I’m curled up behind him beneath black light charged, glow-in-the-dark stars, my chest pressed against his back. We’ve just finished what I could call making love but what I’m sure he would say is doing it.
“I’m glad you think I’m sweet,” I reply. Then on a second thought, “Do you think I’m too sweet?” I ask.
“No,” he replies.
I wrap my arm around him tighter and lace my fingers through his. I kiss his shoulders and nuzzle up against his back.
His warmth spreads through me like hot chocolate, and I’m being pulled down deep into sleepy waters. I’m drowned out when I try to say that my sweetness has always been found annoying before. That I was labeled clingy.
I try to wait a little before I say this. Then I question if I should. Then I question what he means exactly. Then I question all the times before.